


May the Mighty Fall

by Udunie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, M/M, Public Humiliation, Public Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Werewolf Mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-19 13:09:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 16,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4747613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Udunie/pseuds/Udunie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” Matt sneered, looking at Stiles with derision. “One day, the popular, orphaned son of a beloved consul, and the next a traitor to the Emperor and an enemy of Cantalupo…”</p><p>Stiles didn’t move a muscle, even though all he wanted was to leash out, to reach between the bars of his cell and strangle that little, creepy shit. He could have said a lot of things, he could have told Matt’s pompous, patrician ass that he was - in fact - not an orphan. And seriously, from where he was standing, he wasn’t even really a traitor. </p><p>Well, yes, he wanted the death of the Emperor, but he wanted the best for Cantalupo - the return of the Lupa Maxima, the city’s rightful ruler and with her, the revival of the principate.</p><p>Of course, his reasons were far from being completely patriotic. </p><p>Gerard Argent tried to have his father killed, he lived in outrageous luxury while some of his subjects starved. He didn’t give a shit about the plebs…But. Stiles couldn’t say any of that. It wasn’t the time. Not yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the first chapter of my new fic! It’s Steter, and it’s placed in the Empire of Cantalupo - an imaginary city/empire, very much like ancient Rome, except for the part where it was established by werewolves instead of two dudes raised by a wolf.
> 
> I would like to thank the wonderful gemstonewriter803 not only for the betaing, but also for the fact that she exists and takes the time to be my friend.
> 
> If all goes well I will be updating this daily!

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” Matt sneered, looking at Stiles with derision. “One day, the popular, orphaned son of a beloved consul, and the next a traitor to the Emperor and an enemy of Cantalupo…”

Stiles didn’t move a muscle, even though all he wanted was to leash out, to reach between the bars of his cell and strangle that little, creepy shit. He could have said a lot of things, he could have told Matt’s pompous, patrician ass that he was - in fact - not an orphan. And seriously, from where he was standing, he wasn’t even really a traitor. 

Well, yes, he wanted the death of the Emperor, but he wanted the best for Cantalupo - the return of the  _Lupa Maxima_ , the city’s rightful ruler and with her, the revival of the principate.

Of course, his reasons were far from being completely patriotic. 

Gerard Argent tried to have his father killed, he lived in outrageous luxury while some of his subjects starved. He didn’t give a shit about the plebs…But. Stiles couldn’t say any of that. It wasn’t the time. Not yet.

 

***

 

He had many visitors in his cell the night before his sentence.

First was Christopher Argent, the new consul who took his father’s place. Stiles didn’t have anything against him; from what Allison said, her father was barely more than a puppet, letting the Emperor yank on his strings this way and that.

The consul wanted to know what he was looking for in the Emperor’s study in the middle of the night.

It was funny, that if Stiles were still a plebeian - like he was born to be - he would have been tortured until he confessed to whatever nefarious deeds he took part in, but they couldn’t touch him now.

His father becoming consul - by the will of the people - made him just as much part of the nobility as Christopher himself, even if only in name. Stiles didn’t fool himself with thinking that any of the patricians thought of him as belonging to their circles, but it mattered little to him.

Tomorrow, he would probably be killed anyway.

They haven’t told him his sentence yet, he could just imagine the Emperor bent over dusky tomes just to find some long forgotten form of punishment to unleash on him. But, he was pretty sure that it would end in his death anyway.

He didn’t tell the consul anything. 

There was a moment, right before the man left, when he looked into Stiles eyes with something close to gratefulness, and in that moment, Stiles understood that he knew.He knew that whatever Stiles was doing, his daughter was also a part of.

Good.

The least the consul could do was to protect his child.

 

***

 

Next came Lydia and Allison.

“Are you completely out of your mind?” Stiles hissed, shifting closer to the bars to make sure the guards couldn’t listen in.

Lydia just threw her copper hair over her shoulder like she had no care in the world.

“I’m the Sister of Proserpina. I can go wherever I want, as long as I’m protected by a priestess of Diana,” she said airily.

Well, Stiles couldn’t exactly argue with that. The Sister of Proserpina was held in high regard, her screams echoing through the city heralding danger no matter what catastrophe Cantalupo was facing - giving them enough time to get ready. Even though she held no official state position, Lydia was probably the most important person in the city. After the Emperor, of course, or at least it was what Gerard liked to think.

Allison didn’t look far as carefree. She had dark circles under her eyes, and she was looking at Stiles with barely concealed grief.

“Stiles, you have to… I know you could do something to get out of here,” she whispered, uncaring of the way the boy nearly flinched from the words, turning to Lydia accusingly.

“Did you tell her?!”

“What? That you’re a magi? Building a conspiracy on distrust is not a stellar idea, you imbecile.” Stiles thought that he saw her fingers shake as she adjusted the scarf around her neck, but it must have been a trick of the torchlight.

“Still…” Studying the ancient, magical arts was forbidden, even for the nobility. Sure, he was already going to die, but that didn’t mean he wanted to add to his charges.

“It’s fine,” Allison said, trying to stealthily wipe her eyes. “Lydia told me that you wanted to keep it as a last resort. But, this is it, this is the last resort you have, Stiles.”

He was shaking his head even before she finished speaking.

“No. If I escape they will lock down the city, double the patrols, enforce the guards - it’s standard procedure. In just three days everything will come into fruition.”

Lydia gave him a long, hard look.

“You shouldn’t have let yourself be caught,” she said. There was something soft in her voice that made Stiles swallow at the realization that he was really,  _truly_ going to die.

He shook the dread from his shoulder - at least for now - and grinned.

“Tell me about Scotty,” he asked. His friend had been in bad shape the last time he saw him. Back when the wolves shared Cantalupo with humans, the Lupa Maxima would offer the bite to those who couldn’t be helped by the arts of medicine.

“He’s well. His mother is keeping him on bedrest,” Allison said, and the small, bright light in her eyes was enough to ease Stiles’ worry. Those two would end up together one day, he had no doubt about it.

“Good. Melissa has enough common sense to keep him out of the action, no matter how much he begs,” Stiles said, thinking of her fondly. He was almost sure that his father would marry her after his return. It was a shame he wouldn’t be around to see it.

But first, he needed them to succeed.

“Have you talked to the Pontifex Maximus?” he asked, turning to Lydia again. Initially, they weren’t sure that Pontifex Deaton could be trusted, but they needed someone with detailed knowledge of the supernatural with adequate resources.

“Yes,” the girl said, “he agreed to make a potion for me that would thrust me into a deep, dreamless slumber for at least a few hours.”

“Good.”

A lot of people were going to die, and Lydia couldn’t be allowed to scream in warning.

Because, what the Argents didn’t know was that Stiles hadn’t been stealing the city plans from the Emperor; he had been bringing them back.

And in just three days, the wolves will return through the secret passages under the citadel, and the mighty? The mighty  _will_ fall. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to the lovely Emma who looked at this for me!

Stiles didn’t sleep much that night. After the girls left, he tried consoling himself with the thought that the Argents - and everything they stood for - would fall in a short few days.

It was a pity he wasn’t going to be there to see it.

He missed his dad. Those first few weeks, when he really thought that he was dead; lost his life on patrol of the city’s outermost borders - were hell.

But, knowing that he was alive was even worse in a way. Sure his father had always been busy, even before becoming a consul, but he always had time for Stiles.

He knew how to deal with losing a parent, but he didn’t know how to really miss one.

Well, he missed his mom, of course. But the dead were different. They couldn’t come back, no matter how hard he wished.

His father… His father was only stopped from coming back to him by the Emperor, because  _he_ was the one who sent out the consul on a mission, right into the waiting arms of paid mercenaries.

Stiles’ father had been getting too popular. Popular enough that the people started to talk, to remember a time when the consuls had more power - in times of peace equal to the Lupa Maxima.

John had been too much of a threat.

And now, after months of planning, of carefully laying the groundwork for a fucking coup, it was all for nothing.

He would never get to see his father again.

The thought chased away any chance of sleeping peacefully, but maybe it was for the best. Who knew what dead men dreamt about.

 

***

 

He was woken from a fitful almost-slumber an indeterminate time later. After the near complete darkness of his cell the light of the torches was blinding.

“Stiles? Come on, we have to go.”

He knew that voice. It usually wasn’t filled with so much regret, but it seemed like that was the only way people he loved talked to him since he got caught.

“Danny?”

It was customary for a warrior dedicated to Apollo and one sworn to Diana to take the prisoners to whatever fate awaited them, but he didn’t expect them to be people he knew.

“We have to go,” the priestess said, and Stiles instantly recognized Kira in her.

“What are you guys doing?” he asked as he stood. It was too much of a coincidence.

Kira straightened, her swords clanging together.

“No matter what happens, we are going to be there,” she said, voice unwavering.

Stiles swallowed thickly. He didn’t… He hadn’t even thought of his friends, only his father, but now, standing in the dark, damp corridor of the prison, he realized how much they meant to him. He wasn’t sure whether Danny and Kira were in on their plans - they thought it was safer not to know about everyone in case they were subjected to torture, but still.

He opened his mouth, but right that moment, the leader of the guard appeared, and from the way his friends tensed, he knew that there would be no more talking.

It was strange to walk along the hallways of the prison between people armed to the teeth while he was only wearing a toga and sandals… It wasn’t like he could take on any of them - not even if their situations were reversed, and he was the one with more blades than he could count - but Gerard Argent liked the show. He liked showing off his power, or more like, how powerless others were in the face of it.

He wasn’t led towards the exit. It wasn’t surprising; the catacombs were sprawling all over under the city. Actually, the secret passageways the wolves were going to use were also part of them.

Objectively, they could take him to any number of places, but Stiles was pretty sure they just wanted to get him into the senate without the plebeians seeing him as a prisoner.

 

***

 

He wasn’t expecting to end up in the Arena Minor.

He never saw it before, it was a place that only the senate could access, and only used on special occasions; private celebrations of the nobility… or death sentences to be kept out of the public eye.

He couldn’t help fidgeting as he stood on the sandy bottom of the circular arena. There was a high, wooden wall all around him with the patricians sitting in their richly furnished boxes a good twelve feet above him.

Stiles flinched when the heavy metal door fell shut behind him, unable to stop the thought of never getting out of there again to take over his mind.

But. He was still his father’s son. The son of a consul who was proud, and just and more honorable than all of this lot together, so he stood straight, looking right up at the Emperor sprawled on his lectus.

But it wasn’t Gerard Argent who delivered his sentence.

Magister Harris stepped forward and cleared his throat before smiling down at Stiles.

The Magister always hated them - most of the nobility did, but few with the unrepentable fervor Harris did. Ever since his father had been elected, he took every chance to remind everyone of their family’s low origins. It was funny how Stiles forgot that Harris was the head of the Council of Magisters in charge of judging the crimes of the patricians.

He was so fucked.

“The Magisters,” Harris started, voice echoing in the arena “have decided. It has not been easy to find a suitable punishment for such an appalling crime; breaking into the private chambers of the Emperor, but after much consideration, we were able to find a suitable one.”

He stopped for a second, eyes cutting to Gerard like he was in on some joke before continuing.

“And so, the Council of the Magisters decided to evoke a sentence that had not been used in almost two decades; Stiles Stilinski, son of the late consul John Stilinski, hereby we are sentencing you to a fate most abhorrent…”

Even though he knew that whatever came next was unavoidable, Stiles still felt his heart beat fast and unsteady. This would be bad.

“We are sentencing you to be sodomized by a man-beast in front of the Holy Emperor and the noble senate, so that the name of your family should be forever covered in the deepest shame, and that you yourself should not - ever again - be considered a man. Lex Bestia.”

Stiles couldn’t breath.

This… this was worse than… than a death sentence, it was… It was a custom people only whispered about, that set fear in the heart of every citizen of Cantalupo.

Until now, Stiles thought it wasn’t more than a made up story to scare children. How wrong he was…

He could barely see, his eyes going grey around the edges from the shock when he heard another, familiar voice ring out in the arena.

“With all due respect to those for whom it is due, I’m vetoing the fuck out of this bullshit.”

Stiles had never been more happier to hear the voice of consul Finstock.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the third chapter! Again, my thanks goes to gemstonewriter803 who was lovely enough to have a look at it.

“What?” Magister Harris asked, voice going high with indignation.

“What do you mean  _what_? You can’t possibly… for the gods’ sake…”

Even from this distance Stiles could see him looking around at the other nobles, his unruly hair all over the place as he ran his hand through it.

“Come  _on_. The last time Lex Bestia was used it was on a guy who killed seven little kids. I mean, I do personally know that at least half of your own children did their fair share of trouble making. The Stilinski boy certainly deserves a firm slap on the wrist, but ruining his whole life seems a bit of an overkill…”

Stiles swallowed, hoping against reason that someone,  _anyone_ would take his side - suddenly regretting all the times he failed to show the proper respect to the senators.

“Consul Finstock, are we to believe that you don’t think stealing from our Holy Emperor is a serious enough crime?” Harris asked, head growing slowly purple with anger and frustration.

“Serious enough? Sure. Capital? Hell no.”

Matt - himself a junior member of the council - took that moment to slink up to Harris and whisper something to him until the man nodded his head.

“Well, unfortunately for you, consul, you alone can’t veto the decision of the magisters. Unless your partner joins you, the sentence stands.”

Well, that was it. There was no way Christopher Argent would go against the ruling.

Stiles felt hazy. It was hard to even process what was about to happen.

Yes, sex between males was not outlawed, but it was only acceptable for a free man to partake in it if he was in the active role - either with a slave or a prostitute.

Much like in war, the surrendering of one’s body for invasive forces was seen as the complete and utter destruction of honor, of valor of  _virtue_ itself. And for it to happen by a were’ would ensure that it didn’t only affect Stiles himself, but his whole bloodline, living or dead.

Having intimate relationships with lycanthropes was explicitly forbidden, and considered the lowest, dirtiest perversion.

And it would cost Stiles  _everything_.

“I stand by the veto of consul Finstock,” Christopher Argent said, almost too low for it to be heard, and Stiles could practically feel the air shift in the arena as everyone went dead still.

Harris looked like he was about to faint as he quickly withdrew to a corner with Matt, talking hurriedly. No doubt trying to find a loophole that would still let them proceed.

Stiles could hardly believe it.

For the first time he allowed himself to really look at the people up there. It was hard to judge their exact expressions from so down below, but he thought he could see at least a few of the senators look relieved at the prospect of the veto.

Nobody was looking at him openly, except for the four archers; two of Diana and two of Apollo who were situated on the balcony with their arrows raised - as it was custom when a criminal was present in front of the senate.

Stiles didn’t dare looking at Danny or Kira. As grateful as he was for their support, he wished they weren’t here for this.

Harris stepped forward again, and the confident grin on his face didn’t promise good things to come.

“As it appears, we have a standoff. The consuls vetoed the ruling and the Council stands by its decision. As the head of the magisters, it is my duty to present the matter - for final decision - to the man who is most honorable among us, the Emperor himself.”

Gerard Argent stood, placing his gilded cup on the small table beside his lectus.

The small crowd of nobles parted in front of him like a herd of frightened sheep.

He walked to the edge of the balcony, taking a second to glance down at Stiles.

“Thank you, Magister Harris. It is a  _truly_ hard decision to make,” he said, voice scratchy and kind of like a crow’s.

“Even though the crime itself is not traditionally punished in such a severe way, we have to take into consideration that the boy shows no trace of remorse. He has been asked about his reasons for breaking into my quarters and he failed to provide an adequate answer. As much as it pains me,” he said, and then had the gall fucking  _smile_ down at him. “I have no choice but to suspect nefarious intentions behind his actions.”

From the corner of his eyes, Stiles could faintly see the way Kira’s hold tightened on her bow. He hoped she wouldn’t do anything stupid - unless it was to shoot him dead before his sentence was fulfilled.

“Your stance on this case is duly noted, consuls,” Gerard said, and senator Whittemore took a careful step away from Finstock, like he was afraid the Emperor’s disdain was contagious. “But I, Gerard of the noble and Holy house of Argent - chosen by the gods to rule over our beloved Cantalupo - uphold the decision of the Council of Magisters. May the beast come!”

Stiles was dimly aware that someone was cursing colorfully - Finstock, he thought - and stormed out, followed by a few others.

But he couldn’t pay attention to any of it, because the heavy metal door at the other end of the arena was slowly, gratingly started to rise.

For a second, he couldn’t see anything in the dark mouth of the tunnel behind it, but as he watched, he saw a pair of burning, blue eyes take form.

It was done.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal thanks to the absolutely lovely Emma ( gemstonewriter803 on tumblr) who is making this whole post-a-day thing possible!  
> also  
> Peter's POV!

Peter couldn’t remember ever being this unbearably  _restless_ since his capture a year ago. Of course, he knew that he should be grateful that he was even alive, and more so for not going feral, but something… something was in the air, making his skin itch and his blood sizzle hotly in his veins.

Maybe it was the aphrodisiac he was given, but he didn’t think so. True, he hasn’t had a good fuck since he was locked up in the deepest dungeons of Cantalupo, but that didn’t mean he was desperate enough to want to actually rape someone.

Seriously, he had no idea what Alan thought when he pulled the strings to get him chosen to provide tonight’s ‘entertainment’.

Through the thick metal door, he could hear the people in the arena. Whoever this Stilinski boy was, he didn’t deserve to what was waiting for him.

It wasn’t like Peter thought that relationships between shifters and humans were anything to be ashamed of, but to have to have it done to you in front of people who wanted you to suffer? That wasn’t his cup of tea.

A part of him wanted to just… not do it. It wasn’t that simple though. He worked hard so that his captors would think that he was just another lonely omega gone feral, even though he could still feel his sister, his pack waiting for him, fighting for him in the distance. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if they figured out that he was a Hale of all things.

Not to mention that if not for his bond and Alan’s regular visits, he  _would_ have gone feral long ago. He couldn’t risk being found out.

If he gave any reason for the Argents to think that he wasn’t what they thought he was, it would be his end, and as repulsed as he was by the idea of forcing himself on someone, survival instinct was still stronger.

It was hard to listen to the people with so much metal between them, but for some reason, he had no problem hearing the boy’s rabbit fast heart clacking away in a panicky gallop that couldn’t have been healthy.

It was… well, it should have been annoying, but all he wanted to do was to quiet it down, to gentle it until it didn’t sound like the kid was about to kneel over with a heart attack.

He strained his ears to catch the words of the senate. Talia hated politics, but he did love intrigue, deception and mind-games were second nature for him. He had no idea what his sister was doing without him.

In the endless hours spent in the dark of the dungeons he often had no other entertainment that to think of the people he wanted to kill when they inevitably took back their rightful home, and it wasn’t different now either.

That magister had to die.

He had to admit to be amused by consul Finstock, though. The man had balls, and apparently  enough soul left to know when too much was too much. That was a rare quality for a politician.

Peter vowed to take careful note of every person who didn’t leave. Anyone who wanted to watch this deserved to die, and Peter never forgot those who got on his death list.

He was so caught up on the sweet thoughts of murder that he was - almost - startled when the door began to rise. His eyes flashed blue and adjusted to the bright light of the arena quickly, still, he wasn’t prepared for what was in front of him.

It had to be the drugs, but when he finally laid eyes on the boy standing there, all alone and shaking with fear it was almost a religious experience. He didn’t know what it was; the pale, mole dotted skin? The way his short toga revealed his long, slim thighs? The eyes that shone like old gold?

Peter felt an unexplainable certainty that he never saw anyone more beautiful in his life.

Before even noticing, he took two, long steps forward, only stopping when the boy took a shaky one back and the stench of his fear finally reached his nose.

He pulled to a halt, taking a second to just breath, letting the smell of terror chase the fog from his mind. It wasn’t like him to get so caught up in… anything, really.

Stiles… he thought his name was Stiles, looked at him with wide eyes, hands clenched into fists by his side.

It was no wonder. Peter must have been a formidable sight; covered in filth, naked, shifted into his beta form with too much hair and claws and fangs. He couldn’t fault the boy for being scared.

He concentrated until he could hear the muffled whispers from above and it was enough to finally clear his head completely. The senators probably thought he was waiting for the right moment to attack. Very well. He needed to form a plan.

Unfortunately, he had no doubt that he would have to go through with their bidding, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make it at least a bit more bearable for the boy. He had to be cautious, though. He had no doubt that one wrong move on his part would be enough to have the archers release their arrows, and they were probably soaked in wolfsbane too.

He walked in a slow circle around his ‘victim’ not wanting to stay in one place for too long, in case someone grew suspicious. He kept his eyes on the boy, not sure if he could have averted them, even if he wanted.

Whatever was happening to him, it was a bit unsettling, but still. He had to act.

It only took a fraction of a second to leap from where he stood, taking Stiles to the ground with him. The sandy floor of the arena wasn’t too hard, but the was still careful not to hurt the boy too much.

Just when he felt Stiles fill his lungs with air to scream, he quickly covered his mouth with his palm.

“You shouldn’t give them the satisfaction,” he said quietly, words coming out mangled from behind his fangs, but the boy seemed to understand them just fine.

His body went rigid with surprise - all the werewolves held captive were supposed to be feral, and Peter was very obviously  _not_.

As soon as his fear eased a bit from the shock of the revelation Peter finally had a chance to smell him for real, without the stench of terror souring everything.

It was his turn to freeze, not even breathing as his brain tried to catch up to his instincts, because that scent… that scent was screaming  _mate_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for my lovely Emma for the quick work on the betaing. (And also, for putting up with me, even when I seem to write 'clawed hands' into every second sentence...)

For probably the first time in his life, Peter didn’t know what to do. Of all the places in the world, he didn’t expect to find his mate on the sand of the arena.

He knew that he should move, that he should do something, but he just couldn’t. His instincts were howling with the need to both protect and to take his mate right then and there, uncaring of the fact that he couldn’t possibly do both at the same time. The rational part of his brain - already worn thin by both the aphrodisiac and by spending so long on the perilous edge of going feral - knew that he should find a way out of this situation, any way that wasn’t him fucking Stiles in front of his, of their enemies, but for the love of the gods, he couldn’t think of one.

For a second, he didn’t understand how Alan could have done this to him, knowing that the Pontifex had the gift that allowed him to see unformed bonds, but then he imagined another werewolf being forced to do this and he couldn't keep back a harsh growl.

The boy under him shivered, the smell of his fear intensifying again, and Peter could hear cheers from the patricians watching, probably expecting things to proceed.

He tried, but couldn’t stop growling. Of course, it was directed at the threat above and not at his mate pushed into the sand underneath him, but he knew that humans couldn’t tell the difference.

Peter shifted slightly to cover Stiles with his body as much as he could before burying his nose in the soft skin behind his ear. He took a few, shaky breaths before attempting to speak again.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, and it was a testament of his struggle that it was the first thing that came out of his mouth when usually it would be the last one.

He could smell the boy’s eyes filling with tears, the salty scent making something in him growing angrier by the second. His mate shouldn’t be crying. And he definitely shouldn’t be crying because of Peter.

“I can make this good for you,” he whispered, wanting to headbut something when he realized how awful that sounded. He really wasn’t himself.

To his astonishment Stiles gave a wet, hysteric little chuckle.

“I doubt… but you can try,” he mumbled back, voice breaking half-way.

Peter didn’t need any more proof that they were meant to be.

 

***

 

Stiles couldn’t decide if it was better or worse that the werewolf doing this to him was still sane. It was a shock. According to the Emperor and the Argents, all the werewolf held captive were feral and couldn't be controlled. The fact that it was a lie shouldn’t have been surprising, but still.

The man pinning him down was big and well built, and Stiles could feel his hard cock pushing against his ass. Realistically he knew that he had to have been drugged - or at least he hoped he didn’t get aroused by the mere thought of raping someone - but it was still terrifying.

He didn’t… He didn’t have anything against people who enjoyed the passive role in sex. It was an archaic notion that they should be despised, but it was still the norm he was raised with. It was what he had been told all his life; once you surrender you are forever defeated, changed irrevocably from the inside out. Lesser.

It was stupid. Just like virginity, it was an artificial concept, but the fact that it was so ingrained into society still made it real somehow.

If he survived it - if the Emperor allowed him to live for his sick enjoyment - he would never be… He wouldn’t be able to vote as a free man, he would never find a woman willing to marry him, he would be no better than a slave, but even more despised.

The werewolf shifted, tracing the back of Stiles’ neck with the tip of his nose, sniffing audibly. Stiles didn’t know what he was smelling, he was covered in a layer of cold sweat that couldn’t have been all that pleasant.

Before he could even react the werewolf moved, pulling back while keeping a firm grip at the nape of Stiles’ neck. His could feel as his toga ripped at his side as the man’s clawed hand pulled at it with unnatural strength and soon enough Stiles was left in only his subligaculum and the tattered remains of his clothes.

He squeezed his eyes together, trying hard to keep quiet. The werewolf was right. He wouldn’t give the nobles the satisfaction of hearing him scream like a butchered animal.

Stiles still gasped when the back of his undergarment was torn. He tried reaching back to hold the man off, but it was no use, his hand was firmly but gently pulled away. Stiles didn’t know what to do with the gentleness. He couldn't understand it in his current circumstances.

For a second the werewolf leaned closer again, growling loudly so that the resulting cheering and clapping would cover up his voice.

“Hush, let me do what I need to,” he said.

That was a lot easier said than done, but he tried, keeping as still as he could while his brain screamed at him to get away.

But, running from wolves was never a good idea.

The next he knew, the pressure holding him down eased, and hips were jerked upwards until he was on all fours.

A pair of large, rough hands clamped down hard over his hips, keeping him in place when he tried to shuffle away and then…

Then, for the first time in his life, Stiles could feel hot breath puffing against his ass. It made him suck in a huge gulp of air, but before he could blow it out, his cheeks were parted and there was a wet, soft, blazing tongue brushing over his sensitive opening.

His elbows gave out from the sensation, his chest falling to the sand as he tried to claw at it to find purchase.

His mind was… fuzzy. He didn’t understand what was happening, only that it felt out of this world.

He should have been scared, he sould have been repulsed, instead… There was something strange buzzing in his veins, filling his head with a warm, glowy feeling he didn’t have words for.

Every lick of that clever, agile tongue just sent him farther away until he almost forgot about where he was, about why all of this was happening.

Before he completely lost himself in the sensation, the werewolf briefly let go of him, reaching out and pulling Stiles’ hand back between his legs, sucking his fingers into his mouth.

Stiles. Stiles moaned at the feeling of it, not even bothered by the huge fangs grazing his digits. Absently, he was aware that he was getting hard.

“You will have to do it,” the werewolf growled, barely understandable, and he needed a few moments to understand what he meant.

Oh. Claws. Yeah.

He knew in theory how such acts worked, that the passive party had to be stretched, but he forgot about the claws.

His hand was shaking as he carefully reached back with spit slick fingers, searching for his own hole. He never did this before, though he wondered on occasion about how it would feel.

He didn’t imagine it like this. The man took hold of his wrist to keep it in place and started licking at him again, worming his tongue between the two fingers Stiles had in himself.

It took a few moments for him to work it out, but when he started fucking himself, his eyes rolled back and the last of his resistance crumbled, leaving nothing in the way of pleasure.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, today, I'm posting TWO chapters, because I've been sick and couldn't write in the last few days...
> 
> Thank you for the lovely Emma for the betaing, she is an ace!

It didn’t last long. Not long enough.

As soon as the werewolf pulled back, taking Stiles’ fingers out too with a firm tug on his wrist, it was like someone unplugged his ears.

He could hear the cheering of people clear enough that they could have been standing right beside him.

It made his stomach twist in an ugly, poisonous way, making him want to throw up. What was he doing? Why was he letting this happen, he should be… he should be fighting tooth and nails.

Before he could have started struggling - like he should have done from the beginning, damn it! - the were was back, draping himself across Stiles’ back. He could feel the man’s erection poking him in the ass and the thought of what was about to come had him start to struggle, eliciting a bout of laughter from the patricians.

“Stay,” the man growled, shifting impossibly closer. It took a second for Stiles to realize that he wasn’t getting ready to fuck him, but the was trying to cover as much of his body as he could with his own.

He didn’t know what to think of that, but a second later he didn’t have to, because it was… it was happening.

It hurt. It wasn’t unbearable, but there was a tight, burning sensation spreading through his whole body as the werewolf entered him, slower than he thought him capable of.

Stiles squeezed his eyes together, panting into the sand.

“Shh, it’s okay, just breath,” the man shushed him, like he cared about his comfort. It didn’t make any sense.

When he was finally all the way in, Stiles couldn’t breath. It felt huge. Not just physically, but there was a certain sense of irrevocability  about it that wouldn’t let his lungs fill with air. It took a few, torturous seconds for the feeling to ease and soon as it did, and he took a deep, shaky breath, the werewolf started to move, his hips slowly withdrawing, dragging his cock against his sensitive inner walls.

It made the world go fuzzy around the edges. Stiles never… he never even imagined that there was a sensation like this, it was hard to even comprehend it. When the man thrust in, slow, but unstoppable, he moaned, biting into his wrist just in time to stop the sound from reaching their audience.

The burning slowly faded, giving it’s place over to _pressure_. Stiles couldn’t explain it, but the feeling of that hard cock rubbing again and again so deep into him set his insides on fire in a whole different manner.

His own cock - that flagged during the start - started twitching and jerking as it hung between his legs, filling with blood as slowly and steadily as the man’s thrusts drove into him.

It took an embarrassingly short time for him to lose track of reality again, his body surrendering to the sensations, to the pleasure gathering in a tight, tense ball under his navel, waiting to break out and possibly destroy him.

He was aware that he was crying, but he simply didn’t have the capacity to be ashamed about it, unable to do anything but ride out what was happening. The man was going fast now, hammering into him hard and relentless, chasing him higher on the way of no return. His breaking point came when he felt a rough, large hand close around his cock, jerking it in time with the thrusts.

Stiles couldn’t stop himself from crying out as he came, pleasure washing over him, arching his back and making his toes curl with the intensity.

He could barely hear the way the werewolf roared a few seconds later, stilling above him as he finished inside Stiles, his seed washing over his insides and making his ass clench down, setting off another set of aftershocks.

The man didn’t pull back, it seemed like he was struggling with himself, but his hands refused to unclench where they held onto Stiles.

“I… I’m sorry,” he said, but couldn’t finish the thought.

Stiles wanted to know what he was sorry for, but suddenly everything exploded in a cacophony of sounds; people were crying for help, screaming… There was a loud, heavy thud, and when Stiles finally managed to pry his eyes open, he was staring right into Gerard Argent’s unseeing eyes.

He didn’t understand what was happening.

The Emperor was dead.

He was dimly aware that the werewolf finally pulled out of him. crouching over Stiles’ body defensively.

There was an arrow sticking out of Gerard’s neck. Stiles couldn’t take his eyes off from the way the sand soaked up his dark, nearly black blood.

It was shocking enough to nudge him out of his stupor, and he struggled up to all fours - as much as the were allowed him - and looked up. The stands were in chaos.

He could see Harris, hanging over the railing. Dead. Danny was fighting with the other archer of Apollo, trying to stop him from firing his bow, but he lost his footing. Stiles could do nothing but gasp as he saw him fall, catching the thin edge of the floor just in time.

Everything was happening so fast. Kira jumped over, catching Danny’s wrist, but unable to pull him up. Stiles moved before thinking. He stood, legs feeling wobbly under him as he raised his hand, concentrating on sending a pulse of his strength right where it was needed.

He missed the first time. Thankfully, because the force was too large, braking a few boards in the wall of the arena just a feet under Danny’s legs dangling in the air. He shook his head, trying to focus, and the second blast was better, both the aim and the power just right. Poor Danny must have felt like he was kicked in the but, it was enough to push him up over the railing.

Stiles was didn’t even have time for a relieved breath, because right then - from the corner of his eyes - he saw the archer, aiming right at him.

He knew he didn’t have time for another spell, so he just closed his eyes, hoping that it would be fast.

Stiles could hear the sound of a body hitting the ground but… it wasn’t him.

It was the werewolf, lying by his feet, with an arrow in his chest.

He stood there, dumbly, not knowing what to do. He felt like he should be doing something. This man… This man saved his life, but at the same time, he was the one, who… He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about the nagging sense of unease he felt as he saw the werewolf’s blood pooling in the sand either. He was still hesitating, when someone just. Fucking jumped into the arena. The woman should have broke her neck - or her legs, at least - but she acted like it was nothing. She was by the fallen man in a second, kneeling by his side.

“Peter, don’t you dare,” she said, with a growl in her voice. She looked like the daughter of Mars; hands - even her face - covered in blood, clothes tattered where she _should have been_ wounded.

Stiles didn’t have to see the red of her eyes to know that he was looking at the _Lupa Maxima_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter today! YAY!

Stiles was in the bath when he heard his father in the atrium, asking after him. He couldn’t hear the servant’s answer, but a moment later his dad poked his head in, blinking to clear the steam from his eyes.

“You in here again, kiddo?” John asked. He was a bit thinner than he used to be - apparently living with the werewolves for long months, away from all the comforts of Cantalupo was a bit hard on him. But… He seemed well, his skin sunkissed, and some of the wireiness of his youth returned.

“Yeah,” Stiles said. He didn’t offer an explanation. So far he managed to avoid the - no doubt awkward - conversation about why he spent most of his time engulfed in hot water.

Not like his dad didn’t know the answer. He just thought that Stiles maybe should be doing something else to get ‘better’.

It wasn’t like he was sick, okay? So yeah, he was a bit… traumatized. He couldn’t really sleep. Not without seeing Gerard’s dead eyes, or a hundred different scenarios in which everything went wrong and everyone he knew and loved was dead.

Interestingly enough, he didn’t dream about _that_. Well, no, he did. But it wasn’t about the act itself, more about the patricians watching. In his dreams, he could hear their laughter, their insults crystal clear.

He didn’t want to think about it.

“So, how’s it goin, father of mine?”

John gave him a long look.

“You would know how it’s going if you bothered to leave the villa at all during the last week,” he said, though there was no real reprimand in his voice.

Stiles sunk lower in the water, until it was up to his nose. He loved the villa. Most of all, he loved that it was built on a hot spring, making it possible to sit in the warm pool for hours on end without coming out.

“But… everything is surprisingly quiet. I didn’t think that the people would be fed up enough by the the Argents to basically greet us with open arms… not like I’m complaining. Everybody is settling in. Peter Hale is alive,” he finished, just leaving his last words hanging between them.

Apparently, the werewolf who… did that, was Talia Hale’s brother and right hand man who was captured by the Argents almost a year ago. Stiles didn’t know what to think about it.

He didn’t know what to think about him still being alive. By all intents and purposes he should have been killed by that poisoned arrow, but seven days later he was still alive and kicking.

“Uh-huh,” he said wisely, not wanting to comment further, and wishing that his father would just drop the subject.

The consul - because of course he was consul again - looked at him tiredly, rubbing a hand through his hair.

“Stiles, son, I… I’m sorry.”

He sounded so dejected, that it made Stiles sit up, already opening his mouth to say that it was fine.

“And don’t even start. It’s not fine. We should have been there sooner, but Gerard was in such a fucking hurry to get you punished that we simply didn’t have the time. I’m sorry that it happened to you, but you have to know that it… it doesn’t change anything.”

Stiles frowned. That was bullshit. Even his dad had to know that it was bullshit.

“I know you were hurt, but you are alive, and times are changing. The werewolves… they follow a different code than the Argents. Most of them are attracted to both sexes, and it won’t take long for the general populace to take over their morals too. What was treated ‘shameful’ under the Emperor will be just a natural part of life soon enough…”

Stiles… Stiles knew that. He really did. It was an archaic notion that a man’s worth was decided by his role in the bedroom, but it was the mentality of the society he was raised in, it wasn’t that easy to ignore it, when it was ingrained in his bones.

“I know,” he said quietly.

“The Lupa Maxima has been asking after you,” John said, out of the blue, making Stiles pale. What did she want? Was she angry? Did she fault him for what happened to her brother?

“It’s nothing bad,” his father added immediately after seeing the look of worry on his face.

“Actually, quite the opposite. She knows that you were the mastermind behind the conspiracy inside the city. She would like to meet you, and thank you under… more civilized circumstances.”

Stiles closed his eyes. He didn’t want to go to the capitol, he just… didn’t want to face people.

“Do I have to?”

His father sighed, shaking his head before standing.

“It’s not an order, by any means, but it would seem rude if you let her waiting for too long.”

“I’ll think about it,” Stiles said to his father’s retreating back before sinking under the water completely.

Everything was quiet under there. Peaceful. He almost wished he could stay there.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal thanks to my sweet beta, Emma!

Just like his father said, he couldn’t stay holed up forever. Sure, he could dodge his friends - Danny, in particular wanted to meet him at least a dozen times - but he could not ignore the summons of the Lupa Maxima.

Not like he didn’t think about it, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to try to worm his way out of that particular invitation.

He went to the Temple of Mars - actually feeling a bit curious about finally being able to see it in person. The temple had been closed ever since the Argents took over - because the god of war was also the protector of the Hale family. It hadn’t been opened in the last three decades, but now, it was bustling with life.

The cleaning was still in progress - no wonder, it wasn’t easy to get the place back to it’s former glory.

When Stiles stepped in, it took his breath away. The temple was huge, which he knew just from the outside already, but he didn’t expect the gigantic statue of Mars with a she-wolf at the head of temple. It was an amazing sight. The statue was painted in bright colors - so bright that Stiles suspected it has just been renovated, and it contrasted wonderfully with the huge black wolf standing by the god’s feet. The only color on it was the eyes that shone in the light and it took a second for him to realize that they weren’t painted on, but actually made of rubies.

Stiles was so dumbstruck by the temple, that he almost didn’t notice when someone stopped beside him.

“It’s always a pleasure to see the wonder on the face of young people who never saw it,” the person said, snapping him out of his daze.

It was Talia, and Stiles hurried to bow before her, while trying not to think about their last meeting.

“No need for formalities, Stiles,” she said with a smile, that seemed surprisingly genuine for someone in a position of power.

On the way over, Stiles was weary that he would be too anxious to deal with her, but now he felt an unexplainable sense of security just from her mere presence.

“Come, walk with me,” she said, leading him deeper into the temple. People were busy all around - scrubbing the floors and getting rid of cobwebs.

“It will be amazing once it will be open to the public again,” Stiles said, hoping that they would stick to the safe topic.

The Lupa Maxima hummed noncommittally. She was wearing a long, black toga with red on the edge of the fabric. It made her seem even more regal than she already was.

“How have you been, Stiles?” she asked, not looking at him. He was glad to avoid her gaze, but still had a hard time to answer.

“Ugh… better. A bit.”

It was lame, but he didn’t want to go into the details.

Talia didn’t say anything. She led them closer to the walls where the statues of the great men and women of Cantalupo were placed in cozy alcoves. Founding mothers and fathers, innovators, explorers and generals. Stiles looked at their faces, recognizing a few features from both the Hale and the Argent line.

Finally, they reached the end of the line. There were still more alcoves - the builders anticipated a long, rich future - but they were empty, waiting to be filled with the likenesses of the city’s best.

Talia stopped, staring into the next open space like she was already seeing something.

“I told your father that he will get a place here. I already hired a sculptor,” she said offhandedly. Stiles couldn’t help his mouth falling open.

“That… I mean. Ugh. That’s a great honor, Maxima. You’re very kind,” he said, not even embarrassed by the stuttering. He didn’t think there was anyone here who was plebeian born. It was the greatest honor to be included in the hall of Mars.

She nodded, a small smile playing on her lips.

“I also offered a place for consul Finstock. He declined,” she said with something close to a snort.

Stiles made a little choking sound. That was… that was incredibly rude and offensive, even by Finstock’s standards.

“He appears to be sulking because he wasn’t included in the conspiracy. He told me in no uncertain terms that I should be ashamed of myself for such a grave oversight.”

Stiles kind of wanted to bang his head against the marble walls. Under the emperor’s rule that would have gotten anyone killed, but Talia seemed incredibly amused by the whole thing.

“So, since it’s forbidden to create a likeness of anyone bound to Proserpina, I thought you could take the other spot. Right by your father’s side. What do you think?” she asked, looking at him straight on for the first time.

Stiles… didn’t know what to say. That was. That was ridiculous.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Talia said with a chuckle. And apparently he said that out loud. Oops.

“I mean, you did organize most of what was needed for our return. I don’t know what we could have done it without you,” she added. There was something in her eyes that Stiles didn’t want to analyze.

“And, you paid the price for it.”

Yeah. He kind of did, didn’t he?

He averted his gaze, not wanting to look at her anymore.

“It’s… I just wanted my father back,” he said. It was the truth, too.

She nodded.

“I can understand that, he’s an upstanding, honest man. But regardless, you did a great service to me and my family. And to Cantalupo. It would be rude not to acknowledge that.”

Stiles shifted on his feet, feeling his face grow warm. It would have been a great honor, but it still didn’t sit right with him.

Talia must have seen how uncomfortable he was, because she took his arm and turned them towards the entrance.

“But you didn’t really answer my question. How _are_ you, Stiles? You might want to visit Master Deaton for some potion for those nightmares.”

Stiles faltered on his next step. He didn’t tell anyone, not even his father, about his sleeping problems.

“How…?”

She pulled him along, guiding them slowly outside.

“My brother shares your terrors,” she said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“He what? _Why?_ ” It didn’t make any sense. Stiles tried very hard not to think about Peter. He knew the werewolf was injured, but he haven’t really decided whether he wanted him to pull through or… not. Or at least that was what he told himself, but sometimes he couldn’t help to feel a nagging twinge of worry when he thought about that possibility.

“Have you ever heard of true mates, Stiles?”

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My gratitude goes out to Emma again, who is awesome in every way!
> 
> Also, I might not say this enough, but thank you for reading this!

Stiles holed up in the villa again for two whole days after that fateful conversation. He went far enough to tell the servants to turn his father away if possible - he had his own rooms as consul in palace, and with all the work piled up during his absence, John spent there most of the nights there anyway.

Stiles didn’t know what to do. It was all so very confusing - and a bit terrifying.

 _Mates_. It was such a strange concept. Of course, he read about it in passing, but the marital lives of werewolves wasn’t exactly a popular topic during the Argent rule.

For one, it was for life. That in itself was scary. Not like Stiles didn’t hope to find someone he could spend his whole life with, but he kind of hoped that it would be his decision, and not something mystical powers of nature decided.

From what Talia said, the sad thing was that Peter didn’t have any choice. Once he found his mate, and ‘consummated’ the bond, there was no going back, he would always yearn for Stiles. That was a pretty awful fate.

He knew that she wanted him to visit her brother - she implied as much, but thankfully didn’t make it an order he couldn’t refuse. But. How could he? Peter…

Shared his nightmares apparently.

Stiles never heard of such a thing, but he didn’t doubt the Lupa Maxima’s words. That had to mean that Peter knew about everything. Well, he was there, of course, but he couldn’t have understood what that whole experience meant for Stiles.

Except, he did _now_. He knew about how disgusted he was with himself, about how scared he was of the future, of people finding out. About how dreamt about the dead eyes of the emperor staring at him until his skin peeled away…

Stiles shook himself. Better not to invite those thoughts. He had enough of them while he slept. Or tried to sleep. Whatever.

He made his way to the bath - again, for the second time that day and it was only noon. The sunlight in the open atrium hurt his head. Maybe he was turning into a vampire.

Stiles knew it was weird that he spent so much time soaking in hot water - he probably never been as squeaky clean as he was now - but as stupid as it sounded, there was something so cleansing about being submerged… It was the only place where he felt even remotely human nowadays.

He barely got into the pool when someone banged on the door. That was definitely not normal servant behaviour.

“Who is it?”

The door opened, revealing a very pissed off looking Danny.

“There you are, you stupid little fuck,” he said, storming in and plopping down by the pool.

He took a second to get his sandals off before dangling them into the water over the edge.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asked, he… didn’t actually want to send his friend away now that he was here, but was still supremely disappointed in the staff for letting him in.

Danny rubbed his hands over his face.

“I’ve been trying to talk to you for ages, Stiles. What the hell? Are we all suddenly personal non grata? Like, Lydia was here the other day, and the only reason she didn’t kill your maid is because she had an appointment with her masseuse.”

Stiles couldn’t help cringing at the thought. Yeah. That could have easily happened, knowing Lydia.

“So?”

Stiles closed his eyes, dipping under the water for a few seconds to think.

“I just… need some time,” he said finally when he resurfaced again.

Danny gave him a long, flat look.

“Yeah? Well, while you were hiding here, trying to grow gills, I’ve been taking it up the ass - as usual -, and wanted to tell you about it.”

Stiles sputtered, choking on thin air.

“Wh…?”

For the first time since he arrived Danny actually gave him a little, honest smile.

“Seriously, Stiles. I love you like a brother… Well, no. More like a cousin, but anyway. I know you know I’m into guys. Did you seriously think I’ve never tried it _that_ way?”

Ugh. He just… Never thought about it, really. He knew that Danny had a pair of personal bed servants - freed slaves, who were pretty much at the bottom of the social hierarchy, but he just assumed Danny was the active partner in that triumvirate.

“Um…”

His friend raised an eyebrow.

“Not advertizing it, and not doing it are two very different things. Stiles, there are a ton of people who like to bottom.... Do I look like less of a man than I did ten minutes ago?”

“What? No! Of course not!”

Danny was the very picture of virility - it wasn’t a coincidence that he served Apollo’s temple.

“I mean, you didn’t grow up with all this toxic posturing the way I did, so obviously, you’re more vulnerable to it, but what you do behind closed doors in nobody’s business. This whole conquered/conqueror rhetoric is so much bullshit, I can’t wait for it to finally die out with the Argent supporters.”

That all sounded nice, and everything, but life wasn’t that simple.

Stiles closed his eyes, forcing out the words with effort.

“Yeah, but you… you haven’t had it done to you in front of an audience. Without your consent.”

Danny was quiet for a moment, and Stiles didn’t dare to look at him.

“That is true,” his friend said finally. “But… I didn’t want to bring this up, but bear with me. I… saw you down there, okay. And you. I know it’s all fucked up, but you did enjoy it, Stiles. Not like it makes anything better. Both of you were victims that night, and at least part of it was probably the mate thing, but still.” He stopped when he saw the shocked look on Stiles’ face. “It’s not common knowledge, but I’m in the confidence of Master Deaton, who happens to be the person taking care of his injuries. Anyway. Doing that - doing that with Peter Hale, especially - could be something good for you, if you ever decided to do it again. If you could just… I don’t know. Accept the fact that it doesn’t make you any lesser.”

“I don’t know if I can do that, Danny,” Stiles said honestly.

“That’s fine. Shit, it’s fine if you never want to see him again for what he did to you. You have every right. But, if the only thing stopping you from checking out this whole ‘mate’ thing is the shame over taking it in the butt, then maybe you should… give yourself a chance. Don’t let the morals of the patricians make the decision for you.”

Stiles nodded, and ducked into the water, staying down as long as his lungs could stand it.

By the time he resurfaced, Danny was already gone.

Good. He had some things to think about.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emma is a gift. Let's just leave it at that. :D

Stiles didn’t exactly know what prompted him to go and actually visit Peter Hale. He was willing to blame it on sleep deprivation.

He was usually a firm believer of ignoring things until they went away, but after locking himself up at home for so long, even he had to admit defeat. Having nightmares was one thing, but somehow, for some reason, he couldn’t get the thought out of his head that if he saw Peter again, at least he would get some kind of closure.

He didn’t know what he expected to happen. Seriously, it was possible that he would never want to meet the man afterwards, and he was pretty sure that if he made up his mind, his friends and his father would support him, whatever it took. Yeah, so Danny might have been harsh, but he understood that he only wanted Stiles to take every possibility into account. He could do that.

He thought about it long and hard - having nothing to do in the long, sleepless nights - and realized that his nightmares were never really about how awful what Peter did to him was… The worst part of them was always the people there, watching them - watching him - like Stiles was a freak in a circus or something.

He didn’t know if it was the mate thing, or his subconscious recognized that Peter had no choice in the matter either, but the truth was; he wasn’t horrified of the idea of seeing him again. So yeah, he was a bit scared and a lot wary, but there was no knee-jerk reaction of disgust.

That didn’t mean that his palms didn’t grow cold and damp when he waited to be admitted into the man’s quarters.

To his surprise, it was the Pontifex Maximus who finally opened the door.

Deaton raised an eyebrow in surprise - which for him meant as much as a shocked gasp - but quickly smoothed out his features.

“Stiles, it’s great to see you, we were starting to get worried.”

He kind of wanted to ask who ‘we’ were, but decided against it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Um… I. Well. The Lupa Maxima said that I should… That…” Shit. It sounded so weird to say ‘she thinks her brother would get magically better from my mere presence’. Stiles wasn’t exactly an atheist, but it was hard to believe something like that was even possible.

Thankfully Deaton knew what he wanted to say. He wasn’t usually so tongue tied, but, well. A combination of nerves and bad experiences apparently had that effect on a person.

“Ah. Very well,” the man said, leading him inside. The rooms were spacious and elegant, but the outrageous luxury of the Argents was gone. That was positive. Stiles heard from his father that the Hales opened the granaries of the Emperor for the more unfortunate people and that they sold off some of the wealth to start some much needed projects.

He couldn’t distract himself with his surroundings for long though, because all too soon they were standing in the door of Peter Hale’s bedroom.

The one thing Stiles didn’t take into consideration - as stupid as it was - was that the werewolf would be in his human form.

Of course, he knew that the Argents kept all the captive werewolves shifted with drugs, to avoid people thinking of them as anything other than beasts, but it was still a shock.

Peter Hale was… surprisingly good looking. Part of it had to be the simple fact that he was clean, but Stiles couldn’t deny that he had very pleasing features; a straight, elegant nose, chiselled cheekbones and long eyelashes that fanned out over his skin.

Stiles kind of wanted to know what color his eyes were, but the man was obviously sleeping. It wasn’t even a particularly restful sleep, if the thin sheen of sweat on his skin and his labored breathing was any indication.

He was awfully pale, almost as pale as the white bandages around his chest.

“So, is he… okay?”

He didn’t look like he was okay. Stiles didn’t know what to think about that, it made him kind of nervous. He couldn’t tell how old the man was in the arena, but now he appeared to be in his thirties. That was way too young to die. Especially over Stiles.

“Well,” Deaton paused, causing Stiles to look at him. He already knew that he didn’t like the sound of that.

“It’s a miracle he’s even alive. The head of the arrow brushed his heart, and that could have been fatal for a human, but the fact that it was covered in wolfsbane means that it should have a killed a werewolf in minutes,” he said finally.

Stiles felt lightheaded. He was there. He remembered how the arrow stuck out of the man’s chest but… werewolves were supposed to be near invincible.

“Talia firmly believes,” the pontifex continued, “that the only reason he lasted for so long is because of finding his mate. That is something that gives werewolves strength, and anchor to live, if you will.”

He gave Stiles an unreadable look. Which was totally unfair. He wasn’t… he couldn’t be made responsible for the wellbeing of a person he barely knew, and met under such cruel circumstances.

Deaton must have saw something in his gaze, because he turned towards the door.

“Even if you decide not to allow anything more to develop between you two - which would be completely understandable and not even Talia would fault you for it - your presence still means a lot, and we are grateful that you came,” he said before he closed the door behind himself.

Stiles had no idea what he was supposed to be doing now…

He stood awkwardly by the bed, just watching Peter for a few long, awkward minutes.

“This is ridiculous,” he murmured to himself. And it was.

Still. The bed was large and inviting and he barely slept anything since the arena. So really, nobody could blame him for stretching out on the very edge of the mattress. Peter’s rooms were cool and quiet and he was so, so very tired.

He didn’t even notice when his eyes fell closed, but it was the best, most peaceful sleep he had in his whole life.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone!  
> So, in case you haven't heard, I managed to break my laptop (poured my drink over it) so posting might be a bit shaky for the next week...  
> Anyway, enjoy this chapter that had been betaed by the lovely Emma!

Blue.

Peter Hale’s eyes were blue. And staring at him.

It was weird, how much being awake transformed the man's face; while he slept he was just... good looking, but now that he was conscious, he looked wicked. And handsome. There was something in those eyes that spoke of cleverness and cunning and Stiles had to admit that he was attracted to both of those things.

Also, he probably should do something other than just stare right back like a  creep .

"Ugh. Hi?"

Peter was still pale, but he looked leagues better than he did before Stiles succumbed to sleep.

"Hello," the man said. His voice was raspy, but nowhere near as garbled as it had been back in the arena. For some reason that eased Stiles' nerves a little.

"Have you been awake for long?" 

It was probably a stupid thing to ask, but Stiles was pretty sure he wasn’t ready to talk about all the things they were supposed to discuss. 'How are you? Care to repeat our meeting? It seems to be the custom with  mates ...' Yeah, no, thanks.

"You must be Stiles," Peter said with a little grin, making him frown.

"You... You don't remember?" He wasn’t sure if he was happy about that possibility or a bit... offended.

"Oh, I do," the werewolf said, rubbing his stubbled cheek lazily against the pillow, "but it's a bit fuzzy. I do remember your scent. Even though it seems a bit different now."

Stiles didn’t know what to make of that.

"What do you mean?"

Peter just watched him for a long moment, like he was contemplating whether to tell the truth or not, then shrugged. Stiles didn’t miss the way it made him flinch a bit with pain.

"You were terrified back then. Now you're not, but now you smell kind of miserable."

Stiles tried not to feel like he had been splashed with cold water. Were all the werewolves able to tell? Did Talia know how he felt? It was an uncomfortable thought. Stiles valued his privacy - now more than ever.

"You asked," Peter said offhandedly, though Stiles had a feeling that the indifference was at least partly fake.

"Yeah, well. Not like I don't have enough reasons to be miserable..." Stiles shot back as he sat up, trying to straighten his clothes.

"I never said you didn't," Peter replied, and he had the nerve to sound fucking amused.

"Good."

He didn't look back as he left the room.

 

***

 

He had been sure that he wouldn’t go back there, but against all reason, he was standing in Peter’s room again the very next day.

The werewolf was sitting up in bed, with a plate of fruits in his lap. Stiles noticed that his bandages had been changed, and he could see ominous looking black lines peeking out from under them.

"What are those?" he asked before he could think better of it, or smooth the worry out of his voice.

"Hm? Oh. It's the wolfsbane. Still trying to kill me, though my immune system seems to be winning."

Stiles didn’t know why he felt himself pale at the words. When Peter woke up yesterday, he thought that everything was okay, but it seemed like he had been mistaken.

“What does that mean, exactly?” If he sounded a bit demanding… well, it was probably just curiosity. Yeah, he would go with that.

“Nothing much. Just that I might still die if you decide to stay away,” Peter said, popping a grape into his mouth like he didn’t just drop a bomb.

That was totally unfair. Stiles was pretty sure that you weren’t supposed to say things like to people.

“You’re an asshole,” he said, planning to turn on his heals and storm out, but somehow unable to do it.

“True. But I thought you would appreciate the honesty,” the man said, his clever eyes drilling a hole into Stiles.

That… was also true. Except for a very few people - mainly Danny - everybody walked on eggshells around him. He couldn’t really explain it, but he was in the strange mental place where he wanted both to be left alone and to be treated like everything was okay.

“Care for some grapes?”

Stiles just stood there for a second, contemplating his options. He could go. He was sure that even a bit of contact would help the werewolf heal, without the added burden of his personality. Or… He could stay. And figure out how much of an asshole his mate actually was.

It was obvious what he was supposed to do, so he did the exact opposite and sat down on the bed as far away from Peter as he could.

“Don’t like grapes, hand me the strawberries,” Stiles ordered. For a tedious second Peter’s fingers almost - almost - touched his palm, but withdrew just before contact.

 

***

 

And that was about it.

From then on, Stiles just rolled with it, going over to Peter’s every day. He didn’t really have much to do now - too young to go for any meaningful office, and with no conspiracy to manage… It was almost nice.

They talked. Well, snarked, really. Stiles helped arrange Peter’s library from the books left behind after the Argents. It was actually very exciting. Most of those were kept completely private before, with Gerard the only one to access them.

Naturally, he read a lot. On occasion, when the werewolf was having a bad day - he was getting better and better, but the poison took ages to clear out permanently - he read to Peter.

Sometimes, he even slept there. Not the whole night, just little cat-naps here and there.

It was good.

Especially since neither of them seemed keen to discuss that Stiles couldn’t stand to be touched.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank Emma enough for being the wonderful beta that she is, but I constantly try. Thank you, hon!

Stiles didn’t have nightmares when he slept at Peter’s. It might have been a huge oversight on his part, but he never thought about it, too grateful to finally have some undisturbed rest.

Sure, his sleeping schedule was all kinds of fucked up, but it had been like that ever since the coup, so he didn’t even notice how much time passed since he actually slept in his own bed… Until he actually did.

It just happened really - and seriously, there shouldn’t have been anything weird about going to bed in his own home, except that apparently their ‘bond’ was deep enough now that the dream-sharing went both ways.

At first, he didn’t realize that he wasn’t in his own dream. It was dark, but he could hear a kind of… thudding, like something calling him. Then a door opened and he was seeing himself standing in the arena, looking pale and frightened.

It was the strangest thing in the world. A part of his brain understood what was happening, that he somehow got into Peter’s dream, but it still felt so real that it was hard to differentiate between their feelings.

He didn’t… he didn’t think about the person he was seeing through Peter’s eyes as himself, but as mate - it wasn’t really a conscious thought, more like some kind of instinct, whispering in his ears. But at the same time he knew that it was him. It was hard to explain, and even harder to make sense of, but in the dream it all seemed completely normal.

He wanted his mate. It was a need that thrummed in his veins and filled his senses. He knew that what he had to do was going to hurt him, but he also knew that he just… had to if he wanted both of them to survive. And in any case, he wasn’t sure that he could stop himself, even if he tried.

It was strange to feel the turmoil of emotions Peter experienced in those moments. The clashing urge to both take and protect - and the most unnerving part of it was the sheer intensity. Stiles never even imagined that anyone could want him this much, want to… avenge him so much, hard enough to want to kill those who dared harm him.

Their… mating was mostly a blur. To Stiles’ astonishment, it was completely different from Peter’s perspective - even though he should have expected it. Yes, he knew that it wasn’t right, he knew that what he was forced to do was wrong in every sense of the word, but Stiles could feel how much Peter tried to make it… to make it good for him, or at least bearable.

Then the coup happened. Stiles himself barely remembered it, too caught up in shock to take in many of the details. He remembered Danny almost falling and then Peter on the ground, but the rest was was lost to him.

Peter remembered everything. He heard the others coming a few seconds before they arrived and recognized his sister - his pack. His relief was almost palpable, but he knew that things would end in a bloodbath. It was creepy to look through Peter’s eyes at the archers; Kira and Danny between them, and calculate how he could kill them if necessary.

Peter saw Allison storming in and he immediately pegged her as an enemy - as an Argent - only for her to shoot that fateful arrow that lodged into the Emperor’s throat, showering everyone standing close enough in blood.

Stiles didn’t know most of the wolves, but Peter recognized almost every one of them, and with every familiar face Stiles could feel the taste of upcoming victory.

He saw himself stand, shooting blasts of magic to stop Danny from falling. He did remember that part, and it was strange to feel Peter’s awe at the same time. It was tingled with a touch of fear and an overwhelming sense of pride, because his mate… his mate was strong and capable, and everything he dreamed about.

The second before the archer released the arrow meant for Stiles was as long as a thousand years.

Peter was… Peter was terrified.

Up until that point Stiles knew, with absolute certainty - the kind that only dreams have - that what he was seeing was actual memory, but from that point…

Peter wasn’t fast enough and the arrow reached the intended target, striking Stiles in the back. It shouldn’t have been possible, but in the nightmare it had enough force to go all the way through, the head sticking out from his chest.

He fell, just when Talia landed on the sand.

Stiles woke up screaming to the sound of Peter’s roar as he tore his own sister’s throat.

 

***

 

Stiles… he just didn’t know what to do. Even hours after waking up he couldn’t shake the bitter aftertaste of the nightmare sitting heavy on his tongue.

He wanted to go to Peter. To see that he was okay, that he was… he didn’t even know.

But as much as he felt like he should be there, he was also scared. What Peter felt was huge. For the first time in his life, Stiles understood what mates meant for werewolves. There was nothing else, that could bring such peace or such rage to a were. He kind of hated knowing that. He already had so much to worry about, so much to work through, he didn’t need the added pressure of being responsible for someone to such extremes.

He dressed on instinct. It was the middle of the night, but as much as his mind was confused about what to do, his body knew what he needed, taking him across the sleeping city, until he was standing in the door of Peter’s quarters.

There were guards posted in the citadel - mostly wolves - but none of them stopped him, or even questioned where he was going. Maybe they were scared of him - Stiles kind of was, with the way the echo of Peter’s rage still lingered in his bones.

He only stood there for a moment, contemplating whether to knock or just turn around when the door opened, Peter looking at him with his usual little half-smirk.

If they haven’t spent so much time together, Stiles might have not been able to notice the tense line of his back, or the way his eyes had a strange - haunted - light to them.

Peter knew that he was there. And Peter was scared of what he took away from it.

Stiles shifted on his feet, suddenly not knowing what to do, but well. He was his father’s son, after all.

Peter stood stock still for a moment when Stiles put his arms around him, pulling him close, but a second later the man hugged him back just as tight, burying his face in Stiles’s neck.

He couldn’t help wondering which one of them needed it more.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always; thank you Emma, you're the best!

Stiles had no idea how much he refrained from human contact until the ice was broken between him and Peter.

They didn’t do anything big, but the careful distance between them shrunk enough to allow for fleeting touches, just enough to make something in Stiles squirm when he remembered them.

Stiles didn’t know how Peter managed to convince him to show off his magic. It might had something to with the fact that the werewolf didn’t act like Stiles was some kind of abomination, but like his powers were genuinely fascinating. They ended up using a small inner garden that was out of the way, and had the added benefit of a locking door. The walls surrounding it were windowless and high enough to avoid spying eyes.

Of course, Talia - and a few others who were in the arena that day - knew about his magic, but nobody talked about it. It wasn’t surprising, magic was considered a wild, hazardous thing, even by werewolves, though they feared it less than humans did.

Stiles kind of blew up a stone bench. It wasn’t really intentional - he had to admit that concentrating on his power was much more difficult when he wasn’t in a life-death situation… Peter didn’t seem fazed, he just used his amazing reflexes to step in front of Stiles, protecting him from the debris.

He was worried about the wolf a few seconds, feeling the air grow thin in his chest, but Peter patiently showed him how the small cuts on his back were already healed, leaving nothing but a ruined tunic a few drops of blood. Still, Stiles had no excuse for overlooking the way Peter seemed a tiny bit tense after that - not realizing that it was a second time since they knew each other that the wolf had to step between him and harm.

Stiles rarely had a chance practice magic for longer periods of time, so he was caught unaware when his vision suddenly went grey around the edges and his knees bucked under him.

Peter was there to catch him before he even made contact with the ground and the next second he was lifted into strong arms and carried along the long, busy corridors of the palace. He wasn’t proud of it, but he might have hid his face in Peter’s chest to avoid looking at the people they passed.

The werewolf didn’t seem fazed, acting like it was the most natural thing in the world, even going far enough to stop and chat with one of his nieces for a few seconds, only moving along when Stiles pinched his side.

It actually didn’t take too long to get back to Peter’s rooms, and Stiles gave a little ‘oomph’ as he was unceremoniously tossed on the bed.

“That was uncalled for!” he said, sitting up, but quickly realized that it was a bad idea.

“ _Fainting_ was uncalled for,” Peter shot back somewhat crossly making Stiles pause in mid thought.

“Were you… are you worried about me?” he couldn’t keep the note of astonishment out of his voice, even though after their shared dream he should have expected as much.

“ _Are you worried about me_?” Peter asked back with his voice comically high, which - totally unfair. Stiles didn’t sound like that.

“Oh, no. Why would I? I mean, we both almost died only a month ago. Why should I care when you drop dead?”

“I didn’t drop dead… I’m just a bit exhausted, that’s all,” Stiles said. He didn’t know why he was so happy about Peter being worried, but that was the case, no way around it.

Peter clanged around, and when he finally made it back to the bed he had a platter of cheese and bits of fruit with a cup of strong cider.

Stiles didn’t realize how hungry he was until he say the food. His stomach decided to further embarrass him by growling as loudly as humanly possible.

Peter raised an eyebrow and Stiles carefully worked himself into a sitting position, deciding to ignore the obvious disdain.

The man plopped down beside him, and they started eating - already completely used to sharing meals. Stiles thought that that should have been weird, but well. It wasn’t.

When the food was gone, Stiles tried to shift lower, knowing that it was time to take a nap - wanting nothing else, honestly - but couldn’t stifle a little whine as his muscles pulled painfully. It felt like he ran a marathon without stretching afterwards.

Peter huffed out a breath.

“Sore?”

“Yeah, a bit,” Stiles admitted, feeling the exhaustion even in the marrow of his bones.

“Alright. Get on your stomach,” Peter said, getting up and clearing the remains of their food from the bed.

It was a testament of how out of it Stiles was, but he did, in fact, turn on his belly before he could think better of it. It was only when he felt the mattress dip beside him that his body froze in something that was not quite fear.

“It’s fine,” Peter said quietly. “I’m just going to pull your tunic up.”

He didn’t just do it though, waiting until Stiles gave a hesitant nod.

The air felt cool against him back, though he wasn’t sure it was the only reason why he started shivering.

Peter didn’t move for a few seconds. Stiles refused to turn his head and look at him, choosing instead to try to even his breathing out.

He could hear something clinking, and a moment later the room was filled with the smell of lavender. Stiles took a deep lungful of air, and didn’t even startle when Peter’s oil slick hands touched the tense muscles of his back.

The werewolf hummed under his breath - it was probably a low, satisfied growl, but Stiles didn't care. It was hard to concentrate on anything when such skillful hands were seeking out the knots in his shoulders, working on them with a combination of gentleness and relentless attention.

Stiles closed his eyes, letting the last drops of tension leak out of his body. Maybe he should have been worried that this would take things too far, deepen their bond to the point of no return, but if he wanted to be honest, he knew for a long time now that they’ve already left that point far behind.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Emma, you're a star! <3
> 
> Also, dun-dun-dun! The next chapter will be the last!

The first time they actually went out in public was Scott and Allison’s wedding. 

In some ways, it would have been a much bigger deal before the coup, but in others it was still almost earth-shattering.

First of all, even though it wasn’t public knowledge that she was the one who killed Gerard, she was still the Emperor’s granddaughter. It would have been a scandal for her to marry someone like Scott, who was only a step above a commoner.

Now? Now Scott was a werewolf. Stiles had to say that it suited him - he always had something distinctly canine about him. Well, more like puppy-ish, let’s be honest. And he was finally healthy and strong, just like he always should have been. Stiles was kind of sorry that he neglected his friend, but Scott understood that he had enough on his plate, and was smart enough to stay away while he wasn’t yet in complete control of his wolf.

It was also the first interspecies wedding since the return of the weres and nobody missed how symbolic it was that it happened between the first person the Hales turned and an Argent.

Everybody who counted was there, and it was obvious that neither Stiles nor Peter could stay away, whether they liked it or not. 

They didn’t arrive together, but by the time the feast was in full force the crowd was getting to Stiles... Peter knew him enough to notice when he was about to get overwhelmed, and they commandeered one of the cozier corners of the great hall for themselves, stretching out on some fluffy pillows. They didn’t actually get too much attention - even though Stiles was afraid that they would… 

At various points in the evening people stopped by - the newly wed couple, Talia, John and a bunch of other people Stiles didn’t even know. He thought that it would be much more grueling to let people see him with Peter, but in reality, he felt… safe with the wolf. It was enough to snuggle a little closer and his anxiety ebbed away.

The party lasted well into the night. Everybody was drunk - except for them, and they took an outrageous amount of joy in laughing at people stumbling along to the music.

All in all, it was the best night Stiles had in a long while.

***

Maybe he should have gone home afterwards. In retrospect, that would have been a smart decision to make - instead, they went to Peter’s rooms, the route feeling as familiar as anything by now and stumbled to bed, too tired to even act like they weren’t needing the other one close to sleep.

Stiles dreamed.

It wasn’t… It was strangely incorporeal - as his erotic dreams sometimes tended to be. He had no idea where he was, or who he was with. All he knew was that he was surrounded by warmth and pressure. Firm muscles under naked skin. A mouth, panting wetly into his ear.

Stiles hadn’t jerk off since the arena. For a while he had been afraid that he would never be able to get hard again - every time he even thought about it unable to chase the sound of laughing and crude comments away until he just kind of gave up, hoping that it would get better with time.

Being close to Peter helped a bit. He couldn’t deny feeling a stirring of warmth whenever he saw the man changing shirts or doing some exercise. Peter was good looking, and - maybe because of their bond - but he felt safe. It didn’t make any sense, considering what happened between them, but Stiles long ago stopped trying to understand what his feelings were doing.

The dream was something completely different.

He was free of the worries of the real world, of the memories that plagued his mind in his waking hours - free to do nothing else, but feel. The faceless body beside him was undoubtedly male, but Stiles didn’t mind, relishing in every inch of contact between their skin. A hand sneaked down between his legs, reaching back until it found what it was looking for, petting him right there where he was open and waiting.

It was the gentlest nudge, nothing more than the teasing of a single fingertip, but Stiles woke up, wide eyed and confused.

Peter was watching him, his face just a few inches away as they lay on the bed facing each other. Stiles didn’t need to ask to know that the werewolf shared his dream… It made his face flush with something close to shame.

The corner of Peter’s mouth twitched disapprovingly, but he didn’t say anything, just reached out - slow enough to give ample time for Stiles to stop him - and cupped his cheek, thumb caressing the thin skin under his eye.

Stiles sighed, not even noticing how tense he was until then. He made a conscious effort to slow his heart, timing his breathing to the slow movement of Peter’s thumb.

“Alright?” Peter asked, almost too quiet for human ears, but still clear in the silence of the night.

Stiles nodded, not sure that he could talk. He should be asking that. Peter wasn’t the one who managed to pull them into such an intimate dream, no matter how relatively tame it was.

He was shivering. Yes, the dream had been hot and erotic, but he wasn’t sure he was ready for that kind of an experience. Suddenly, he realized how unfair it was, that Peter was stuck with him, without a choice. He talked with Pontifex Deaton at length, so he knew; mating was for life - at least for the wolves. He knew Peter enough by now to know that he would never intentionally hurt him, and that just… somehow made it worse. 

“I… I’m sorry,” Stiles said, even though he couldn’t exactly say why. For everything, probably.

Peter growled. It wasn’t threatening, at least it didn’t feel like it. It sounded like thunder in the distance - an angry Jupiter smiting those who harmed what he loved.

He didn’t notice when he started crying, but could feel as the mattress shifted. The werewolf moved closer, but still managed to keep an inch or two between their bodies.

“Come on, come here,” he said, waiting patiently to give Stiles the opportunity to refuse.

He couldn’t. He burrowed close, curling up against Peter’s warm chest and sobbed like a child. He wasn’t sure he cried properly since the arena, but now everything was bubbling to the surface. 

But, somehow it felt like he would be okay.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT IS FINISHED!  
> My eternal gratitude to Emma, who made this whole fic possible, and who is a sweetheart who puts up with me on a daily basis and is a fantastic human being in general!

Slowly, but surely almost a year passed since the coup and the Lupa Maxima’s return to Cantalupo. John had been elected again - along with consul Finstock - and the city was flourishing more than ever. 

Stiles kind of moved in with Peter. Nobody - except for him - was surprised by the development, in fact, all the people around them treated it like a natural progression of their relationship.

For a while Stiles was waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Peter to grow tired of him, or to demand more than he could give, but to his astonishment, none of that happened. They were actually kind of like an old married couple; often arguing about silly things, but with the comfortable cushioning of a deep bond to fall back to.

On the anniversary of the coup, Stiles was pouring over some texts - working on a way to transport clear water to the poorer regions of the city - and waiting for Peter to return from a meeting with the senate. The ‘new nobility’ as the people called them was much more reasonable than the old one, made up of men and women who earned their titles by skill and virtue. Stiles still didn’t want to be anywhere near them.

It was getting late by the time the door finally opened, and Peter strolled in, already on a tangent about unreasonable people and the importance of sending spies basically everywhere.

Stiles didn’t know what happened, but when he looked up, he thought he was seeing Peter for the first time. No, no, not for the first time, but in… a different light, maybe.

His body was moving on it’s own accord as he stood and walked up to the man. Peter was obviously distracted, not even pausing in his spiel as he turned to Stiles and planted a small kiss on his temple - a custom he took up a few months before. But, for the first time, Stiles stayed there, reaching out and turning Peter’s head back towards him. It felt like his fingers should be shaking, but instead they were sure and steady as he cupped Peter’s face and kissed him. Properly.

The silence afterwards was nerve wracking. For a second Stiles was overtaken by uncertainty, but when he looked into the man's eyes, all he saw was awe.

"Stiles?"

He didn't answer, just gave a little shake of his head. He wasn’t sure he would be able to put his feelings into words. Afraid that whatever it was that finally gave him courage would disappear if misspelled.

His hand slowly slid down, caressing Peter’s neck, his shoulder, his arm... Until he finally slotted their fingers together.

He pulled, leading the man to the bed.

The werewolf didn’t resist or demand an explanation, his palm actually felt a tiny bit clammy, making Stiles smile inwardly. Apparently, he wasn't the only one affected by whatever was happening between them.

When they reached the bed, Stiles took a shaky breath and turned back towards Peter. He bit his lip - nervous, but also excited - as he grabbed the hem of his tunic. But he had to make sure both of them were ready.

"Do you... would you like to...?"

Peter's eyes flashed blue, like lightning.

"Do  you ?" he asked, raising an eyebrow with faked nonchalance, but Stiles knew him better by now.

"That is not an answer," he said, with a quirk of his lips. He felt... happy, even though it was hard to explain why.

Peter just looked at him for a few long seconds.

"I want everything you're willing to give," he said finally, and there was something in his voice that made Stiles shiver with anticipation.

Good.

He pulled his clothes off. He wasn’t putting on a show, just getting naked like he would for a bath, but still, Peter was following his every movement like it was the most arousing thing he ever saw.

Eventually, Stiles had to stop with only his underclothes on.

“Care to join?” he asked with a little smile, not missing the way Peter tried to hide a flash of embarrassment at being caught just standing there and staring like an idiot.

When they were both naked, Stiles felt nervousness lick up his spine, but he wasn’t about to let it overtake him. Peter probably saw his second of hesitation, because he stepped closer, palming the ball of his shoulder gently, like he was afraid to spook him.

It should have been annoying. Stiles knew what he wanted. He wanted Peter, there was no need to walk on eggshells, but at the same time, he was incredibly grateful for the careful way the man touched him, like he was something precious to be cherished.

After they got on the bed, they didn’t do anything much for the longest time, just kissing and trading light caresses until Stiles thought he would go mad with it. It was frustrating. Aside from what happened between them the first time, he actually had no idea how to… make love. He wanted  something , he just had no idea how to actually get it.

“What do you need?” Peter asked, the question barely more than a whisper against Stiles’ mouth.

“I… I want you.” That was the truth at least.

Peter gave a little chuckle.

“And I want you too, but I need to know…”

Stiles didn’t want to talk, so he kissed Peter again and shuffled closer until their fronts touched, shivering at the sensation of so much hot, naked skin pushing against his own. When their erections rubbed together for the first time, he couldn’t help gasping wetly, and Peter was quick to follow.

Once the contact was made, Stiles couldn’t get enough of it, he wanted… he needed Peter. To feel him close, to smell him, to see the way his eyes flickered impossible blue whenever their cocks brushed together.

The werewolf had to be overwhelmed too, because the next second he rolled them over until he was above Stiles, pushing against him like there was no tomorrow. Even though the haze of pleasure, Stiles couldn't help freezing for a second, and Peter immediately stopped above him, panting and wide eyed, looking like a frightened child.

“I… I’m...”

Stiles didn’t let him finish, yeah, he was caught off guard by the sudden change in position - of being pushed under Peter’s mass - but other than the shock, he wasn’t okay. And finally, he was ready okay.

“It’s alright,” he said, pulling Peter down for a kiss, and opening his thighs for him to slot between.

He could feel the werewolf’s whole body shudder. He didn’t know if it was the position, or the endearment, and didn’t particularly care.

He could feel the exact moment when Peter’s reserve broke; the man started rutting against him, grasping at him with something close to desperation. Even though he was held down by someone immensely stronger, Stiles had never felt so… free in his life.

They moved in unison, hips jerking together, gasping into each-other’s mouths like they would suffocate without the closeness.

When Peter finally reached between them with a growl, Stiles’ eyes lost focus from the pleasure as their cocks were squeezed together in the man’s fist, jerked with short, fast movements until Stiles couldn’t even remember his own name.

When he came, it was with Peter’s face buried in his neck, biting gently at the skin and growling like an overgrown, overexcited cat before stilling and following right after him.

Stiles felt… peaceful in the afterglow, Peter’s weight feeling like a comfort and not a cage above him.

“I love you,” he whispered, too low for humans to hear, but the werewolf tightened his arms around him, murmuring the words right back into his ear.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment if you liked it! Or, you can hit me up at udunie.tumblr.com!


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